


A Liar's End

by orphan_account



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Character Death, Everyone loves John André, I don't know what the heck I should tag this as, M/M, Not Beta Read, The ship is very brief, This is no where near historically accurate and I apologize to the historians, canon character death, in other words: it's barely there, mentions of hanging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-10-27 11:28:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10808136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "I pray that the death is quick, that God can forgive my misdeeds. My darling mother, it is my fault for such a wrongdoing. This is the reality of the war and I know the mistress of Death herself would catch me in my acts. For the dishonor I have brought on the name that father had given us. I send my love. To you and Ann Marguerite and Mary Hannah. I will meet you once more when your time will come. I wish for you not to cry."John André has been caught and sentenced to his death.





	A Liar's End

**Author's Note:**

> Literally just a self-indulged one-shot for my friend who has been obsessed with John André for two months. Especially since yesterday was his birthday and I wanted to write angst.
> 
> First post on here, and I'm don't know what to say?
> 
> I tried to be as historically accurate as I could, but I took a bit of liberties leading up to his death.
> 
> Anyway, here. Have some sad André.
> 
> And possibly some André/Hamilton–can I add that as a ship tag?

His breathing was ragged, echoed through the small room as his feet paced the wooden floorboards. His body moved, anxiety ridden in his body as he tried to keep the calm exterior that he had shown the Continental Soldiers. How could one be so calm when they knew they were facing death.

He accepted it, though his feet wouldn’t move and his mind flashed with thoughts of his family. Of his sisters that he seemed to be abandoning. Of his mother that needed him. Of the British cause. Hadn’t he done what he was ordered to? He didn’t have a choice, didn’t have a choice as Arnold moved him into the American side. The words John Anderson slipped past his lips as he had crossed lines, hands just barely shaking as the passport echoed the same name that slipped to the Americans.

And yet, war was ugly. War was unjust. War was treacherous and Arnold showed that. And yet André accepted his fate. Accepted that he was caught and brought into the old tavern of New York, waiting for the days to tick down to his execution.

“My fiancé has been taken with you, John André,” he heard the teasing tone from behind the door that held him captive, a breath of a purr slipping through as he pushed the door open. André’s gaze met with the auburn haired male that stood beside Washington, the general’s most trusted companion. The words, “Alexander Hamilton,” left him in a breath and a kind smile, eyes curling upwards as he straightened his posture.

“And what do I owe the pleasure of someone as yourself joining me here?” His curiosity got the better of him, his tone light. Genuine as his head tilted to the side. “Washington’s trusted soldier with a British major such as myself?”

“You’re a strange one,” Hamilton commented, his hands clasped behind his back as he took a step forward, his head tilting up just the slightest amount as he stared up at André. The British soldier didn’t move, didn’t blink, and kept the same smile spread across his lips that somehow reached his eyes. “You’re physically capable to escape.”

“I deserve the punishment,” he answered before his feet moved him and his back now faced Hamilton. “I do not particularly enjoy feeling as if I have a double life.”

“Would you have repeated your action if you have known where you ended?" 

“For my country, I would like to say yes. For my family,” he collapsed in the chair he was provided that sat in front of the desk that held his journal. One with his sketches and words that would be sent back to his family. To his dear sisters and mother. He repeated the words, “For my family, I just wish to die with honor.”

Hamilton fell quiet after that, André’s voice much weaker than it had been. A hint of fear crossed through and his gaze moving out the window that he was fortunate of having. “I must face whatever crime that I have committed,” even if fear wanted him to run away and join the British lines once more.

* * *

A hair was never out of place for André and to admit that it was more unruly than natural pained him. His reflection staring back as he gazed into the darken window, the ribbon that his youngest sister Mary Hannah gifted him with was wrapped around his wrist. A simple reminder of home as he stared down at it, his fingers crossed over the silk with a sigh. A shout of his name cut through his thoughts, and he nodded as the green shirt held onto his frame that he was to meet with the other men.

The smell of food shifted through the air, he was surprised that the rebels treated him like one of their men instead of simply another spy. He had expected to be locked to the pillory when he arrived at the old tavern in New York, but instead he sat with the men who would witness his execution. 

“I was captured in Pennsylvania once,” he commented, with a soft smile as some of the men sat with him. Hamilton, Lafayette, Tallmadge. He knew their names, their faces, watched as they moved with interest. “Chained like another British soldier and I promised I would not escape if I were to be let out of the metal. They agreed, and I stayed a year until the trade was announced for me to go back to British lines,” he soft chuckle left him, the reminder of his home laid against his wrist as he brushed his thumb over the fabric.

“A reminder from your wife?” Hamilton asked with a sip of the alcohol that he was handed when the food was gone.

“My sister actually,” he stated with a wound in his heart. A knife that went through as his eyes stayed to the fabric. “Well, one of them. I was on my way home to see them when I was caught.”

The group went silent, the tension held in the air that he realized was his own doing. “I apologize,” he added with the glimpse of a smile. His eyes holding onto the fear of what was beyond death for him, the sorrow he would cause his family. “I hate to ask for more than I already given, which I am thankful for and your civility. But do you by any chance have a pencil and paper?” 

“An artist?” Lafayette wondered, his gaze meeting with Hamilton for just a moment before the auburn haired male moved to find the requested items. André nodded, his lips upturned to a grin as he met gaze with the Frenchman.

He answered with a nod of his head, “Yes, it is but a simple passion of mine. My journal holds countless more artworks.”

Hamilton came back, the rest of the men silent as the pencil scratched against the table. A sketch being made as André felt the azure eyes staring through him. He wanted to ask if there was something wrong, if he had said something out of line, but he didn’t pursue it as he continued his own sketch. Hoping that it was decent for the time being.

The small familiarity of the sketches being able to calm him for the moment as he sat with his captures. Grounded him in the sense that he could focus and calm the raging storm of his emotions. His head bent down to work on it, only moving up to meet his own gaze in the mirror before him.

“You remind me of someone,” Hamilton spoke out, moving out of his seat to stand behind him to watch his movements.

“I hope that is a good thing, Mister Hamilton,” André teased, turning to face the other with a bit of a smile.

“More than a good thing,” a reply with a hand on his shoulder that lingered just for too long for André not to question the motion. He only gave a smile before reaching up to grip the Caribbean’s hand and pull it to his lips as if he were meeting with a woman.

* * *

The day came too early, much too early as he heard the words below him in the tavern. The walls held no secrets, and he would have preferred not to eavesdrop on such a conversation. The anxiety clawed at his chest, at his throat. At the words that swept through the cracks of the floorboard in the rundown tavern and he could make out the distinct notion of the French accent with the boy he had become close with. 

“ _Général_ Washington, you couldn’t possibly hang him,” they sounded desperate, and André’s thoughts agreed with Lafayette. “I respect your decisions, but yet…,” he words trailed off and he forced a breath to keep the tears at bay. How was one suppose to be calm when they knew that death awaited for them with every ticking hour? 

“I agree with Lafayette,” Hamilton’s voice cut in, André forced himself to not scrub at his eyes with the filth on his sleeve. “We couldn’t trade him for Arnold--although that would be more advised in this situation as André didn’t technically betray us, he was never on our side. But if he were to be put to death, shouldn’t we instead accept the request he gave you? Tall--Bolton, you agree?” André noted that slight panic that he heard, the way Hamilton’s voice raised as he spoke. It echoed along the walls of his prison and his hand met the wall to keep his balance as his knees wanted to give out.

The man he had met with, the other spy he knew. The one he spoke kindly with as if old friends that had met in university instead of strangers. Instead of enemies in the middle of a war. “They hung Hale,” he stated, choking on his words as he spoke. Words that were weak and André could barely make them out. “Hale’s mission failed and André’s did too.”

André could note that Tallmadge dodged the question, his back hitting the wall and the anxiety overcoming him as he slipped to the ground. Did he truly deserve this? Had he forsaken God this much to deserve a noose around his neck? A panicked shout from the auburn haired male in the other room, words stammer over each other as a crack echoed around them. “We could trade him for Laurens!”

 “If André were have gotten back to Arnold with these papers,” Washington’s voice was strong, held authority as he spoke to the others. André could sense that it was directed towards Hamilton and his hand waving the papers that held creases from his stockings. “Hamilton, you would be _dead!_ Lafayette and myself would be also! _They_ would have won!”

 “I understand your need to get Laurens back--” the same voice of Tallmadge cut through and another crack shook the room. The walls under André’s head shook as the voice of Hamilton cutting through the air, ragged with emotions.

“It’s not like you would understand, Tallmadge!”

“Who do you think was at the fall of Charleston when Laurens was caught!” the other shot back and a sigh left André’s lips as he could not hide away from the shame of hearing their conversation.

He could feel the tension through the walls that surrounded him, could feel the fire that hung in the air. A cough came through, trying to clear the tension and the French accent once more stated, “Sir, the firing squad?”

“If we cannot have Arnold back to face the noose,” a sigh left the General’s lips, his feet moved away from his men and away from André, “we will need to show them the consequences that they had shown Mister Hale.” Finality in his tone, one that wouldn’t be tested against in the moment. A creak from the hinges on a door cut through before the door fell close.

André stopped listening at that point, the room beside him had fallen quiet and it seemed the slam of the door echoed in the British’s ears. The fear that he held, the one that clutched his chest and caused him to break down, was becoming true. His breathing picked up speed, his hand gripping the front of the green shirt that he covered his back. The other to cover his mouth as he tried to hide the terror he felt, the reality crushing him. The dishonor he would held as the news would travel across the sea to his family. He blamed himself, Hamilton’s words echoed in his mind.

_"Would you have repeated your action if you have known where you ended?”_

Every emotion flooded as the fear crept into his veins, ice cold as it moved through his body. His exterior cracking, crumbling for the moment and another gasp wrecked his body. He wouldn’t try to fight, wouldn’t try to escape. He knew he would have to face the consequences as any other gentleman did. But the tears fell as his vision blurred around him and his feet moved his body upwards.

He reached for the quill that laid on his desk, his hand shaking as he tried to steady it. It dipped into the ink pot before he moved to write the words in his journal that laid open.

_I pray that the death is quick, that God can forgive my misdeeds. My darling mother, it is my fault for such a wrongdoing. This is the reality of the war and I know the mistress of Death herself would catch me in my acts. For the dishonor I have brought on the name that father had given us. I send my love. To you and Ann Marguerite and Mary Hannah. I will meet you once more when your time will come. I wish for you not to cry._

He held onto his wish, even as the sobs racked his body and he moved away to let the ink dry on the pages that he had just written on.

* * *

“Your time has come, Mister André,” a voice of a rebel stated from outside the door, one that held the same sadness that coursed through André’s veins. That clung to his skin and he couldn’t shake. He clasped his hands in a quick prayer before turning to stare at the mirror that was before him.

The redcoat would stand out against the rebels’ blues. The golden epaulets on his shoulders as he straighten the coat. A hand moved to his handkerchief around his neck, a breath escaping his lips in a gasp. It felt like it was choking him and he still hadn’t seen the noose. The cold of his own fear spread through him, a shiver running down his back. He could blame the October air as he pushed the emotions out of his thoughts.

He removed the white handkerchief around his neck, removed the feeling of losing his breath and gave a nod towards his mirror. His journal laid open with his last writing and in an sense of impulsivity, he reached for it. If he were to die, he wished to have General Washington give his family his last memories after the war had ended.

He moved out of the room, bringing a smile towards the soldier before him as he headed down out of the tavern with more rebels standing before him.

“You seem to stand out,” one of them teased with him, as André returned it with a smile of his own and a nod in agreement. He couldn’t answer the other, his voice had left him with the fear that he couldn’t get rid of.

He marched in the middle of the blues, to where his execution would be. Thoughts ran through his mind as he kept his head up and kept the pride of someone who would face such a thing with dignity. Had Washington changed his mind? Had the others spoken with him? Have they got more news about Arnold? Positive thoughts that he would hope would change his outlook as his feet moved in the beat with the other soldiers who would witness his last moments.

They paused and he was forced to stop to be taken out of the darkness that was his own mind. He was to meet the reality that was before him as men set up the rope that stood above a wagon, his body moving back in just a flinch and the others watched him as the fear crossed his face.

He was truly a dishonor to his land, his King, and ultimately to his family. People would know André as the spy that was caught, one that had faced the gallows. He held a hand out to the rebels, as he wished to face his own death without them following behind him.

So he moved forward without the time of the march, tumbling over his feet for a moment as his gaze stuck to the noose and catching himself just in time before he met with the dirt. He passed by Hamilton with the ghost of a smile, the words ‘Thank you’ whispered on his lips. His hand patting against the Marquis’s shoulder in an attempt to calm the boy.

And then he was met with the man responsible for his capture. Benjamin Tallmadge in the blue coat he held so proudly, his posture straightened as the helmet stayed on his head. Nothing left André’s lips as he paused to stare up at him, the smile crossing his lips as he held out a hand. He knew he caught the rebel off guard, Tallmadge pausing before raising it to meet with the other.

André gave a nod before reaching into his coat, the leather journal in his hand and used for years throughout his time in the war. He held it out to the blonde, the sadness in his eyes that didn’t match the smile that crossed his lips. “My only request,” he stated, though he wasn’t sure if it came out as a whisper or a shout with the pounding in his ears, “when the war is done, please gift my family with the last of my words.”

Tallmadge nodded, the words, “I promise,” answering the doubts that were in his head and André gave a breath of relief before turning to his demise. The fear that he wish he could escape from and yet that he knew he couldn’t. So he made his way to the wagon with his head held up, even as he wanted to run away and be shot by the men that held their muskets, he refused.

“Please let me do this myself,” his words were stated towards the executioner, who could only nod as André climbed the wagon. His hands trembled reaching for the rope and bringing it over his head to lay on his shoulders.

His gaze moved around the soldiers, his feet snapping to attention towards them as he raised a hand to meet his eyebrow when he came to gaze Washington, Tallmadge, Hamilton, and soon Lafayette who had already collapsed in tears.

He couldn’t handle to see the look of pain cross them, pained to see a British soldier, someone they were against for the entirety of their revolution, as he hung from the rope around his neck. He reached into his pocket to grab the white handkerchief he had taken off back in the tavern.

Maybe it would be quick and painless. Maybe his neck could snap and he wouldn’t suffer. The small hope flashed through his mind as he brought the white fabric to his eyes, The last thing he could see was the ribbon from his sister and he wanted to hide the tears that came to his eyes.

He tied the white fabric around his eyes, letting the darkness cover him before a nod was given and the solid boards under his feet were moved away from him. The air in his lungs escaped him, trying to gasp what he could and only to find that it wasn’t possible. Wishing for the pain to end, for his suffering to stop.

 _Dear God, please forgive me_ were his last thoughts that crossed his mind before his body stilled and simply swayed in the October breeze.


End file.
